


Parting Gifts

by Sundiver



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Angst, Damaged mating, Derek and Stiles are Mates, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Eventual Happy Ending, Fluff, Hurt!Derek, Hurt!Stiles, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, M/M, Mating, Past Allison Argent/Scott McCall (Teen Wolf), Past Derek Hale/Jennifer Blake - Freeform, Past Kate Argent/Derek Hale, Past Season 3A, but Jennifer managed to ruin it, dark!
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-01-13
Updated: 2014-01-17
Packaged: 2018-01-08 14:57:05
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 6,377
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1134024
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sundiver/pseuds/Sundiver
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Derek Hale might or might not have more issues than "Time", but it turns out that Stiles Stalinski has more issues than "National Geographic". Now Sheriff Stalinski is desperate. Stiles is getting more and more withdrawn and isolates himself from his father and his friends. Because Stiles has not only nightmares, he has to deal with someone else’s memories. So when Alan Deaton suggests that Derek Hale has the right to know what is happening to Stiles, the Sheriff doesn’t understands why, but may be the dark and broody werewolf would be able to help?<br/>-----------<br/>Disclaimer:  I don’t own anything in this work except my overgrown imagination and horrible spelling.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Darkness 'round one's heart

**Author's Note:**

> First of all, I’d like to apologies for my grammar mistakes and typos. Is my third language and I’ll be making a lot of both. Any help with those would be more than welcome. Second, I tend to let my sentences run away from me – it’s just my writing style, and I’m not sure how it translates in my English writing. I’m planning to post one or more chapters per week – depends on my workload.  
> About this work – I didn’t like the presence of Jennifer Blake at all in season 3, but no one seems to addressing her presence in the hundred (finished) or so Sterek works I have read. I’m hoping to find a way for Stiles and Derek to be together despite everything.

Stiles vaulted out of bed panting and battle-ready.  The sigh of his room serenely bathed in sunlight met him. The boy blinked several times at his desk with the PC monitor sitting idly on to amongst scattered piles of textbooks, notepads and books in general. His t-shirt and hoody were hanging haphazardly on his desk chair – where he had thrown them last night, and his genes and one sneaker, tilted on one side were at the door. The curtains were gently waving on the light breeze coming through the open window. Nothing, not a threat in sight. Stiles sighed and rubbed his palm to his face, heart beating rapidly from the residual memories of the nightmare. His palm came up wet. He turned to glance at the sheets. He found them tangled and soaked wet, bunched in the middle one corner of the bare mattress peeking from under. He did toss a lot in any normal night, so he made them extra tight. Apparently he had tossed and turned pretty hard. And apparently his dad hasn’t been home yet, he would have woken him up otherwise. This nightmare thing was begging to settle as a normal occurrence. At least this time is wasn’t The Nightmare, it was just a usual monsters-chasing-me-trough-the-woods nightmare. Stiles hated The Nightmare, hated it with his entire body and soul – and he cursed Jennifer Blake for a millionth time. Now he understood how Derek had felt about Kate Argent – violated, hating himself, hating everybody around him. Stiles hated Jennifer Blake. And he started to resent people around him. Probably it was going to turn to hate pretty soon. He resented his dad for not being there for him after the final show down. He started to resent Scott for being self-absorbed ass yet again. It was getting harder and harder to make excuses for him. He resented Allison on principle – this whole mess was her family’s doing. Her Grandfather’s and her Aunt’s – for decimating the painful werewolf pack of Beken Hills. Her Father’s fault – for turning a blind eye, or maybe even hiding an outright hypocrisy toward the Hales Fire. How far would Chris Argent stray from his father’s and sister’s motto “The only good werewolf is a dead werewolf”? Then there was Victoria – a whole different can of worms.

 _Since when I became such bitter sob?_ Stiles though, still looking unseeingly at his rumpled sheets. _Since the drowning, that’s when. Darkness around my heart indeed._

Stiles sighed, pulled up some sweats from the chest of drawers and went to make some coffee, not thinking about Derek. No, Sir, definitely not thinking about Derek and Stiles’ lost virginity. Was it even lost? Was he still technically a virgin? He didn’t feel a virgin anymore. Virginity is supposed to be a symbol of purity and innocence. He felt nothing of the sorts – he felt violated, dirty and bitter. He hated Jennifer Blake. She mind-raped him. He hated Derek Hale, he was the instrument of her rape. Sometimes Stiles could understand his father’s partiality to the bottle.

 

In retrospect, it’s almost impossible to pinpoint the exact moment that everything in Stiles’ life went to Hell. Oh, there were some memorable incidents that could be named “The Beginning of the Fall”. Like the night Scott got bitten, for example, that was a pretty major candidate – but if asked, Stales would tell that, no, it wasn’t it. Things had taken on their course already.  Was it the night Claudia Stalinski died, in her hospital bed? No, Stiles won’t say it was it as well, since he had fallen asleep in his chair by his Mother’s  bed and missed the whole parting thing. But the thing is in saying that he wouldn’t be entirely honest – both with himself and everybody else.

He had known the end was near, he had already had said his official goodbyes - in front of his father, in front of Scott, in front of Mrs. McCall, but they were false goodbyes, empty and meaningless. Stiles hadn’t been ready to let go yet, but he had known his duties – he was the one who was supposed to keep his father going, to get him out the black hole the imminent death of Claudia would leave in his father’s heart.

So putting a front for his father, for Melisa, even for Scott had been what he had to do those days. So, he obediently went to the grieving counselor, obediently put his brave face, obediently listened to what he was supposed to do, then get back to the room, when his Mother’s dying body lay surrounded by IV stands, tubes, and bleeping machines, sustaining the Earthly shell of the woman that had been his entire World for eleven years, but where her mind and spirit hadn’t returned for weeks.

Some part of the child’s mind had supplied back then the concept that the body, laying in the bed, with more painkillers circulating in it’s veins than actual blood, wasn’t - in fact - his mother. His mother was rays of sunshine, and laughter, and the smell of herbs from the small vegetable garden in the back of the house, and the lilac smell of her shampoo and the fresh baked cookies on the counter. His mother was the warm hug every morning before he would leave her car to go into the cold concrete building of the school where he would spend hours, listening to meaningless lessons. His mom was love, and affection, and happiness – not this flare body, these bones underlined and painfully visible under the ashen skin, those hollow cheekbones, or these deep shadows below her closed eyes. He knew the end was near, the end when his mother will leave and he’ll never see her again.

But deep inside he _knew_ that he will see her one last time, the real her, when the body would give up it’s pointless battle with the cancer, the battle it can’t possibly win – and instead will gather every ounce strength left to grant her one last time with her beloved son and husband. He knew he will see his mother one last time, and that would be the time for the real goodbye. And since he knew the end was near, he didn’t want to miss it.

He became creative, he stole every drop of coffee he would find and poured it in the two vacuum flasks he had bought. It was easy; his father had hardly noticed Stiles those days, so half of the freshly brewed coffee vanishing mysteriously from the coffee-maker when he turned to the fridge hadn’t even registered. So Stiles  had been drinking cup after cup of staled coffee, coke after coke from the vendor machine – and waited for his mom to return, not daring to fall asleep and he miss her last return. He knew she would be week. He hadn’t know how weak tho, so he reasoned that she probably won’t have the strength to wake him. He hadn’t gone to school for the last week, he spent every moment with his mom’s body, talking to it about everything and nothing at all, trying to coax her back from the land of no-pain.

Four days he had stayed awake during the night - and then he ran out of coffee. In one moment he was telling her a story from the book he had been reading for school the previous month, and in the next – nurses and doctors were moving his sluggish body out of the way, while the pulse monitor was screaming one high-pitched, uninterrupted whale. Stiles never forgave himself for missing his mom’s last visit to the land of the living. He never forgave himself a lot of things.  

And, of course, things went to shit after that – as things usually do in real life. Stiles couldn’t keep his dad from falling apart as he promised his mom on one of her better days. He was barely eleven, barely managed to take care of himself, and when John started drinking, he just didn’t know what to do. It hadn’t been even a week after his mother passed away, and he was already failing her – yet again – and the stupid, stupid, stupid internet that was supposed to hold all the answers had none for him. And when his dad asked Mellisa McCall to take Stales for the weekend, Stales had his first panic attack.

So, yeah, everything went to shit. Scott and Mellisa failed him, his counselor failed him, his new therapist failed him – everybody insisting it wasn’t his job to keep his dad safe, and that he was just a kid – when it clearly _was_ his job to take care for his dad, else Claudia wouldn’t ask him to. And internet failed him too, his own body failed him – not only with the panic attack, but the ADHD had made its first manifestations – and he was failing his mom. It _was_ his fault, really, he overestimated himself, he overestimated the internet, he misplaced his trust in the adults, trusting apparently not the right ones to help him, and the time for asking who the right ones were had truly went and gone – because his mom wasn’t there for him to ask. What was worse was that it hadn’t even occurred to him to ask her at the time who would be better choice than Scott, Mellisa, and a therapist. So he was failing his mom yet again – he was failing all around, at home, at school, with his dad, with Scott, with himself...

Everything went to Hell back in the days. But it was a different Hell, because thing gradually went back to some semblance of normalcy, bit by bit. No thanks to Stiles, of course. His dad stopped drinking _because_ of him failing so spectacularly. His dad had put _himself_ together - to keep _Stiles_ from falling apart. It took everybody almost three years to put a wrap up _Stilses_ problems. But they had gotten over it - just barely.

And then, two more years later things went to shit again – a different kind of shit, a werewolf shit. This time around there was no sign of improving on the horizon – the shit was just getting deeper and deeper. Evidently somewhere between those two events, apparently Stiles had managed to lose all ability to deal with the shit, and this time around no one was even considering making things better for him – or his sake. Welcome to real life. Stiles wasn’t eleven any more, he clearly saw all his past mistakes and misjudgments, and he knew – kind of – that it was up to him to deal with all the shit. And he was coping – kind of – managing to keep everything under tight lid…

And then the nightmares started. They weren’t exactly nightmares. They were scary dreams mostly. Dreams were _fine_ , dreams he could cope with – nightmarish or not, but when the memory-dreams – The Nightmare - made an appearance, he suddenly found out that he’s way over his head. So, he went to Deaton, since Ms. Morrel, who would have been much better choice for any physiological supernatural problems, was killed recently by the Alpha pack. It turned out the Darach had left Stiles a nice parting gift. Somehow, Jennifer Blake had imprinted her memories of her affair with Derek Hale in Stiles mind. And Stiles wasn’t a simple observant, oh, no sir, it would have been so easy just watch them like it would have been a porn movie. He was a participant. And since these were _her_ memories, Stiles was the enthusiastic, willing female participant in the intercourse.

Stiles dropped his half-full coffee mug in the sink and run in the downstairs’ bathroom to throw up.


	2. A hoody in a zip-bag

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You should be warned that you are about to see a pretty unpleasant side of Derek Hale in this chapter. My reasoning for writing it in this manner is that Derek started acting less power high and less of an ass mid-season 3-A, namingly that “What have I done” moment after being used for the instrument of Boyd death. Also his attitude toward humans in general and Stiles is particular hasn’t changed. Stiles is still Scott’s “plus one” and I wanted to put some physiological motivation behind that kind of behavior. So I will be pondering the idea of slowly changing Derek’s behavior trough this work – a change that had started in season 3A, but is far from finished. Altho it’s true that Derek’s attitude toward Lydia and Jennifer contradict this in some manner, I’m attributing this for them both being female, helpless and all – which plays well to his werewolf protective instincts, but doesn’t bold well for the his view toward male humans. So, yeah, I see Derek as a speciest and chauvinist, and I think he deserves a major smack-down. I may or may not be having a small revenge for the Jennifer Blake thing in 3A. I’m not admitting to anything.  
> Also, I’m not watching season 3-B at all (with the exception of a few trailers which I probably will use broadly more for Scotts and Stiles and Allison’s behavior than to any actual plot. So this probably should be treated as an AU after the end of 3A, were the plots take a sharp turn away from the cannon.   
> Please, comment and let me know if I’m doing a decent job with the character build. I know the Stiles you saw in the first chapter is drastically different from the canon Stiles, but he should start reverting back to his old self as soon as he gets his some help.  
> Also, in my head I’m quite a bit further from what I have already written, and should probably let you know that Peter Hale butted his way into the story. I like Peter, and I want to kick his ass out of the darkish-gray zone (into somewhat good and relatively sane person). So, yeah, Peter is up to some major smack-down as well. Altho I feel none of the characters in the show has the potential to balance him and bring him back like he was before the fire, so I’m gonna be creating an original male character for that purpose. The actual plot will appear a bit late in the work, since the characters need to get their shit together, before the new supernatural event would fall on their unsuspected heads like a ton of bricks.

John Stalinski was sitting in a booth by the window and was sipping anxiously his morning coffee. The coffee was surprisingly good for a rest-stop establishment, but probably some higher power had decided that truck-drivers occasionally deserve a decent coffee.

He was an hour early, and the fact didn’t particularly help with his nerves. He could have driven twenty miles north and could have reached the outskirts of Pasadena. Why? Why the Hale kid had chosen this diner instead of a place in the city, where he could have got lost in the crowd easily would thing go wrong?

John looked around the diner. The middle-aged waitress looked absorbed in the soup-opera playing on the small, probably twenty something years old TV, half hidden behind the counter. A truck driver just had finished his breakfast and was throwing his napkin on the plate, before standing up and walking out. There was no one else around.

There was no traffic on the road outside – the last time a car had passed was about twenty minutes ago. John heard the noise of a big truck’s engine, slow deep rumble that gradually disappear. The truck-driver had gone his way without even passing into view. The place looked almost deserted, like in one of those horror movies his son hated, but the Sheriff secretly enjoyed.   May this was the reason Derek had chosen to meet him here – so they could talk.

John looked down at his coffee. _Weird_ – that what Stiles would have called the place, if he ever had set foot in it.  Stiles. His son. The reason he was here – to get his son back – he reminded himself. He felt tired. He felt a hundred years old. He felt inadequate. He felt helpless.

The doorbell chimed, but John didn’t look up. It was too early for the Hale kid to be coming in, at least forty minutes up to the meeting. John restrained himself for not looking at his wrist-watch, instead continued staring in his coffee like the cup held the secrets of the Universe.

What was he even supposed to say to the Hale? He wanted to scream at the werewolf “Give me my son back”, “Get out of my son’s head” and “Stay away from him!” but Derek Hale hadn’t been doing any of those things, had he? He hadn’t taken Stiles, hadn’t keeping him hostage, hadn’t been brainwashing him, hadn’t been even bothering him. As long as his knowledge went, Derek Hale tried to stay as far away from Stiles as possible. And yet here they were. Him – sitting in booth at a rest-stop diner and Derek… doing whatever he was doing before the meeting. Jesus, he was a _mess_!

Someone cleared their trough at his table and John startled. Derek was looking down at him with neutral expression. So, Derek did come early. Probably planning to scan the meeting spot for danger and possible escape roots beforehand? Well, he as well could have, if he hadn’t cleared his throat, John wouldn’t have noticed.

“Morning, Sherriff” Derek greeted him and took the place opposite John, then added “You’re early”.

Before Stalinski could answer something cached his eye and his head snapped toward the bar counter. Cora Hale was there, slouching in a bar stool, facing them, elbows on the counter, disdain clearly written on hew whole body. She was chewing a gum – teenage arrogance personified.

John’s eyes snap back to Derek.

“I thought we were talking whiteout witnesses” he comments, desperately trying not to lose his temper. He doesn’t deserve this.

Derek’s expression doesn’t waver from the neutral expression he was giving the Sherriff, but somehow it had a condescending air to it now, especially with Cora’s pestering.

“She’s just an insurance, or a backup” the werewolf said quietly, then adds “Evidently I need one, considering you being so early”.

Irrational anger boiled up in Sherriff’s chest. No, not anger – rage. His hand bulged in fists. He wanted to pummel the werewolf, which was irrational, since the chances for human to pummel a were from slim to none. But he wanted, he needed to… He just needed to… If John has brought for some reason his gun with him the werewolf would have been bleeding all around the place now and from several holes. He needed to get a grip of himself, that’s what he needed.

“Couldn’t sleep very well. What’s your excuse?” John looked him in the eyes with a skeptical look, not quite managing to keep the hostility off his voice. The werewolf’s nostrils flared and his eyes flashed blue for a moment. So, the animosity between them was palpable still, despite John knowing the whole story that ended up Derek Hale as a parson of interest of the Beacon Hills Sherriff’s Department -twice.

_He’s innocent. He didn’t do it. He hasn’t touched your son, he doesn’t have any interest in him. He doesn’t even know!_ John strongly reminded himself. But he didn’t want witnesses for this.

 

***

 

Anger. The Sherriff smelled of extreme anger, but then his smell changed – a tinge of bewilderment added to it, like he didn’t know where to direct his anger. Derek though with amusement that if the Spaz of Beacon Hills could hear his father’s heartbeat right about now, he probably would dislocate a limb from flailing.

Still, Stiles was in some kind of trouble, according to the Sherriff, and Derek begrudgingly admitted that he owned the boy. That was the only reason he was meeting the man. There were no warm feelings between the werewolf and the human, especially after the two interrogation sessions the Sherriff had done to him. Derek had always had little patience for humans, less so for teenagers, and even more – for Stiles. It was a testament for his control he hadn’t ring the boy’s neck up until now. It coasted Derek a lot to admit to the dept he had to the boy, especially in the way his father had put it. If the older Stalinski was a werewolf, he would have been - if not the Alpha - the highest ranking Beta in any pack. But being human? Being human and posturing could only amuse a werewolf.

Derek’s face stayed neutral, despite his inner mirth at both Stiles’ and the Sherriff’s expense. Derek had tried smirking and the man once and quickly had found out that it wasn’t a very good idea – especially in a position of power. John Stalinski was _not_ the Sherriff here however. And yet something in his steely expression and the angry smell was starting to make Derek uneasy. Something apparently quite bad had happened to Stiles, leaving his dad angry at the world. But the man sounded different on the phone the other night. Tired, wary. Defeated? What had his idiot of a son had gotten himself into this time?

They just stared at each other, but Derek was hardly surprising the urge to lift an eyebrow is the universal _well?_ gesture. Whatever Stiles had done wasn’t _his_ problem – it never was, and never would be. He would help a bit, but that was it. Derek hardly acknowledged the annoying brat on his best days and he had no time for petty human teenagers with ADHD and suicidal tendencies. His feelings toward Stiles had been always varying between disdain and utter irritation. But he owed Stiles, and the Sherriff was here to collect.

John spoke first.

“I’m here, because Deaton said you are the men to go to, and that you have the right to know” he said gruffly.

This time Derek couldn’t restrain himself – both of his eyebrows shot up in surprise, but almost instantly scrunched in a scowl.

“I have the right to know – what, exactly” the werewolf growled. Right to know? What the hell was going on? He had no time for this nonsense!

But the Sherriff deflated suddenly, his shoulders sagged and he rubbed his face with his palm before looking at Derek.

“I’m here to ask you to teach Scott how to draw out memories from a person. How to remove them, I mean” then, apparently seeing something behind Derek’s back, he dropped his eyes to the table and spoke softly “Cora, I would appreciate if you don’t listen to this conversation. Please, this is private.”

Please? The Sherriff said _please_? He pleaded with a teenager? Derek was momentarily stunned, but managed to school his expression back to neutrality before the Sherriff had look back up. There was something in his eyes that Derek couldn’t pinpoint, which only deepen the cold feeling in his stomach. He didn’t like this at all.

Anyway, the Good Sherriff was up for a disappointment.

“I’m sorry I have to let down your request, Sherriff, but I simply don’t know how it’s done” said the werewolf. Derek didn’t elaborate – there was no need to. He was being honest, and the human could take it or leave it.

The Sherriff looked him in the eyes for a minute, just to make sure Derek was telling the truth. Derek absentmindedly though that when it came to a lie detection at least, John Stalinski was half werewolf already. Sherriff’s shoulders drooped even more.

“Okay” he said and rubbed his face again. “Okay. Then convince you uncle to do it”.

The werewolf considered the request. Dealing with Peter on his better days was a challenge. Obviously the Sherriff had asked his uncle already, otherwise he wouldn’t be here. If Peter had said _no_ , than he was bargaining for something and – as he well knew his uncle nowadays – apparently Peter was trying to upper the prize he was going to extract from this little endeavor. Or probably Peter counted on the Sherriff asking Derek for help to convince him and was itching for a favor from Derek. His uncle was conniving like that.

“Sherriff, I think you have come to the realization that my uncle is not someone who is usually easy to bargain with” Derek said, choosing his words slowly. “He’s going to ask for something in return, and I know him. Yes, I owe Stiles something - but my debt to him doesn’t cover me becoming indebted to Peter.”

The Sherriff clenched his fists on the table. He smelled like resignation.

“What do you want, Hale? I have some money put aside. If you need them to start over wherever you plan going – you can have it. I have some influence as a Sherriff, I can… I don’t know – write you a recommendation letter or something. I can pull some strings with the county you decide to settle in – I have a decent cloud with all law-enforcement in California. I can make your file disappear. All you have to do is ask. How about that?” John Stalinski’s voice stayed rock steady trough the whole speech.

Derek on the other hand… His eyebrows shot up mid speech and at the end of it his stony expression crumbled into shock.

_File disappearing? With agent McCall’s breathing in Stalinski’s neck? Recommendation letters?!? Money?!?_

The werewolf tried to put his scattered thought is order. In front of him was sitting a man who was willing to sacrifice his career, his reputation and to throw away who-knows-how-many years on the Force… If he does this and if he’s found out… No, not if – when. When he’s found out, he’s gonna be kicked from the Police, probably arrested and facing charges, and consequent jail time. For Goodness sake, why?!?

“Sherriff, I need to know what exactly is going on” Derek said after a few minutes of heavy silence.

Stalinki’s face scrunched like he chewed a lemon, but after a quick glance at Cora’s direction he answered.

“There are some memories in my son’s mind I need removed.”

“Sherriff, if you want Stiles to forget about werewolves…”

“No, it’s not that!” the Sherriff interrupted abruptly but then his composure wavered and he took a deep breath as to speak, but let it out again, staying mute.

He looked at the table top again, then pierced Derek with an intense stare, then dropped his eyes back to his cup. Derek couldn’t distinguish anything from the man’s smell, heartbeat and posture. There were simply too many things jumbled up – determination, fear, anger, desperation, hatred. Derek stayed quet until the Sherriff sighed – resigned.

“The memories I want removed aren’t Stileses. Someone else planted them there. I want them out.”

Derek suddenly had a very, very bad feeling about this.  His mind sped up, and jumped to the obvious conclusion. However much Derek disliked dealing with humans, Peter was his family, so whatever his uncle had done, it was his responsibility to clean up the mess.

“What did Peter do?” the werewolf growled.

“It wasn’t Peter!” the Sherriff snapped back.

Hatred. Deep, burning hatred, almost raveling a hunter’s hatred, aimed directly at him. The Sherriff held Derek directly responsible for something - something done to Stiles. _What the Hell?_

“Who then” he challenged.

The Sherriff clenched his jaw.

“Jennifer Blake” he spat trough gritted teeth.

That threw Derek for a loop.

“What?” he blinked stupidly.

And finally Stalinski lost it.

“Your girlfriend decided to put in my son’s head her memories of your encounters” he hissed. The man was vibrating with rage, and he averted his gaze so he wouldn’t see Derek’s face when he said the next bit. “You – having sex with my son is the thing I want out of my son’s mind.”

Derek’s mind went compliantly blank at that. Probably his jaw was hanging open. Jennifer had… She had… put… in Stiles mind… Stiles was having _memories_ of sex with him…

The sound of Derek’s very wolf claws digging in the table brought Stalinki’s eyes back at him.

“Snap out of it!” he hissed. “We’re in public!”

Derek fought the wolf, and fought him hard. He never ever had been so close to losing it so completely. He heard Cora shifting at the background. He needed to get out of there because images of Jennifer, conjured in his head were running into images of him and Kate. Derek with Jennifer. Derek with Kate. Memories colliding with one another until he couldn’t distinguish between the two women. He needed to get out of there, and do something. Snap a few trees. Throw some cars around. Tear down a house.

But the thought that Stiles, _Stiles_ , had…

Derek knew he was attractive to both sexes, and used it to his own advantage when needed. He didn’t particularly mind being some guy’s fantasy. What he minded was being some guy’s _jerk-off_ fantasy. He wasn’t interested in guys, had never had even the slightest inkling to invest time and effort into a real experiment. The few occasions he had actually done it was just for relief. He hadn’t even acknowledged his partners then – they were willing to get him off, so he had taken the chance. A means to an end. It happened in secret, in dark alleys or empty parking lots, away from people’s eyes. No one even knew about them except him and the guy servicing him.

_In Stiles’es head there are memories of you having sex with him - not fantasies - memories!_

Derek felt sick. Derek felt violated all over again. Fucking Kate, fucking Jennifer, fucking Stiles! Strangely, but at that moment Darek hated Stiles the most. If the boy had been anywhere around, he would have been a stain on the floor. And the walls. And the ceiling. Peter couldn’t see it. Scott couldn’t see it. No one can see it – Derek, with all his guards down, hurt, vulnerable, in the throes of passion with another person. Whoever tried to remove these memories would whiteness them. If he refused, the Sherriff would go to someone else – would look for another alpha, another pack. Derek couldn’t allow that. He owed the little fucker, yes, but not that much. He couldn’t spare him – Stiles had to go join Jennifer and Kate.

But… But the Sherriff would need time to find another pack with an Alpha capable to remove the memories…. Derek had time.

Somehow he managed to get a grip on himself.

He looked up to the Sherriff with cold, cold eyes. Equal chill met him there, however. But he clenched his jaw and plowed trough.

“I’m sorry, Sherriff, but I can’t help you”.

Stalinski gave him a bitter, wry, smile with no humor at all.

“Alan predicted you’d react this way. He said to give you this” the human reached to a plastic bag and which was out of side up to now.

“This suppose to convince you, God knows why” he unfolded the bag and reach in it.

He smelt it before he saw whatever was in the bag, and the smell left him reeling. The Universe tilted on its axels. Derek watched in helpless, petrified horror the Sherrif extracting a zip bad with a red hoodie in it.

Suddenly the World fell out of existence. The sights, the smells, the sounds, everything just stopped. The sky, the earth, the forest, the fields, the road the diner, everything seized to be – except this table, the man opposite him and the hoodie in a zip bag.

 Everything in Derek clenched in one painful spasm. He couldn’t move, he couldn’t breathe, he could… Just couldn’t. He wanted to scream, to haul, to flee – but he couldn’t. Couldn’t do a single thing. His head span, his stomach lurched, his wolf was clawing his way out from under his skin, as the Sherriff placed the zip bag in front of him.

The World rushed back in with the force of a mac truck and hit Derek Hale. He fled.

 

***

 

John Stalinski gaped uncomprehendingly at the empty seat across of him. The Hale had bolted. He had paled like he had seen a ghost and then, when John had placed the zip bag in front of him – just bolted. Just ran out, jumped in his car a drove off like the Hounds of Hell were after him. Had he just run away from a _fucking_ zip bag?

“What the fuck is _going_ _on_!”

And suddenly, there was an angry, wolfed out, snarling teenager in his face – asking the question John would very much like to know the answer to. He blinked at Cora completely baffled.

The girl snarled in frustration and stomped her foot once like a petulant child, but apparently this outburst was enough for her and when she sat on the seat her brother vacated, she had put away the eyes and the teeth.

“What did you say to him?” she demanded.

Still out of balance, John shrugged helplessly.

“I asked him to convince your uncle to teach Scott something and he refused. Then I gave him this” he pointed at the zip bag. “Deaton said it would convince him”

Cora scrunched her nose in bafflement.

“Why? Why Stilses old hoodie would convince my brother to do anything?”

John frowned down at the zip bag.

“He didn’t say. You know how Alan is, you have met him. Or have you?”

Cora scowled.

“That’s not the point! It’s not sentimental value – my brother can barely stand Stiles on his better days! This is not a memory token and not a reminder!” she snapped at him.

“Why don’t you ask your brother, young lady? I’m in the dark here, even more than you are!” he snapped right back.

Cora blinked at him in surprise and then dropped her eyes. No one spoke in several minutes, but finally the girl ventured a hesitant “So I gather Stiles is not okay”.

John laughed a bitter laugh. That was the understatement of the year, and despite the girl had lost the teenage (or may be was it a werewolf) arrogance and bravado, John was still angry at her.

“Didn’t know you cared” he said not bothering to moderate the harshness in his tone.

Cora sank guiltily in her seat.

“He’s okay for a human” she said quietly in a while.

_For a human? What is_ that _suppose to mean?_ John thought, but shook his head, chasing it away. He needed air. He needed space to think. He needed to get some help for his kid. This hadn’t accomplished anything – complete waste of time.  John sighed, threw some bills on the table and got up. The thought occur to him that the girl had no ride, since her brother bolted.

“Can I take you anywhere?” he gestured airily to the parking lot, empty but for a single vehicle – his car - and almost wishing she would say no.

Cora looked at him, then looked down at the hoodie in the bag.

“What about this?” she asked.

“I don’t know. Take it, give it to your brother, throw it out – I don’t care” said John tiredly.

Cora took the zip bag and stood up.

“Can you give me a ride to Mayson? The small town fifty miles sought?” she asked, and John nodded.

The car ride was eerily silent. John could ask the girl about her new home, assuming she and Derek had had something of a sort, or her school – if she went to school at all.  But he was tired, emotionally tired. He couldn’t muster the strength for a small talk. He wasn’t the Sherriff and the moment. The need to _know_ things had gone doormat.

He parked near the town square, and drew one of his business cards.

“I’ll be in the area for three more days” he said handing the card to Cora. “In case he changes his mind”.

The girl stared at him a moment, but finally nodded, took the card and got out of the passenger side.

John drove away.

***

The evening on the third day after the faithful meeting with the Sherriff found Derek in his Chamorro on his last bottle of jinn. Five more empty ones were scattered on the floor of the passenger seat and the seat itself.

The alcohol buzz in Derek’s head still kept, but it would pass, about an hour he finished the last of the jinn. His only problem was the world was fuzzy. And spinning. Not his only problem, but…  No, no, no, he wasn’t going there. Drinking. He needed a drink so he took one from the bottle. The secret of werewolf drinking, Derek thought foggily, was to pour a decent amount of alcohol, say half a bottle on one go, and then keep it coming in relatively small doses on regular intervals. That, and the dimethyl sulfoxide mixed with the jinn. The DMSO surprised the werewolf to burn trough alcohol really quickly, instead – it burned with a slightly slower pace. Hence – the need of steady doses and big amounts of booze to keep a werewolf inebriated. But it worked. Hooray for the modern chemistry. If Derek had lived two hundred years ago, he wouldn’t be able to get drunk. Or would he? When was DMSO found and isolated for the first time? Probably Stiles would know.

“Oh, fuck!” the werewolf groaned.

He was doing so well up to now. Not thinking about the one who should not be named. So well.

_Well, if you’re doing so well, what is that thug in your chest then?_ some inner voice ranged in his head. Since when Derek Hale had inner voices? Derek Hale doesn’t have inner voices. Derek Hale had no use for inner voices. Derek Hale had no use of lot of things, humans and male humans included. Except for when he decide to turn them into werewolves, but they weren’t humans after that. And they left him – don’t forget the leaving part.

_Speaking about yourself in third person is not a good sign._

This inner voice had the annoying quality of Cora’s voice. It sounded just like her, when she was yelling at him to get his head off his ass and do something about the Alpha pack. And what did Derek do? He put his other head into… no, no, no, he couldn’t go there. He couldn’t go there, not now, not ever.

Why? Why everything had to happen to him? First Page, then Kate, then Laura, then Jennifer, and now this! Can’t life just give him a break! Why the fuck everything had to be such a struggle!

Derek haven’t noticed the Camerro’s door being yanked open, but the words screamed at him registered since it was Cora’s voice doing the screaming. He just attributed it to the voice in his head. Was hearing voice a sign of some mental disease? Do werewolves had mental diseases? If judging by Peter – yes, they do – Derek nodded sagely.

The voice in his head was yelling - something about a pity party. He didn’t want the yelling. Well, he was entitled to a pity party, god damn it! He just wanted to be left alone, to wallow in misery, to drink himself into stupor and to just forget. He _needed_ to forget about everything. The voice was yelling at him for being drunk. May be it was his conscience. Could it be his conscience? Why his conscience would have Cora’s voice?

“Go away! I don’t need you” he muttered. May be saying it aloud would make the voice disappear. Somewhere in the back of Derek’s mind some kind of pain registered but the world was as fuzzy as his brain. Fuzzy and spinning and tilting. But the voice didn’t go away. May be if he yell at it?

“I don’t need conscience!” he yelled. Or he thought he yelled. Was he yelling? But he needed to rant, and he needed to rant at his fucking conscience.

“What use I have of a conscience? And what use I have of humans? What the fuck I am supposed to do with a human! It’s always the fucking humans! First the fucking Page, then the fucking Kate, then the fucking Jennifer, and now the fucking Stiles!  Why the fuck they don’t leave me alone! Why the fuck they won’t stop fucking with my fucking life! Fuck my life! Fucking-fuckety-fuck!”

He gaped at the ground. He was on the ground? He was pretty sure he was in the Chamorro.

“What the fuck am I suppose to do with a mate” he asked the ground. “Moreover – what the fuck am I suppose to do with a male mate! And Stiles, of all people!

***

Derek was weeping drunkenly on the ground where Cora had dragged him unceremoniousely out off the Chamorro. Cora was gaping at her brother.

She had barely understood her brother’s slurred drunken words, but - mate? Stiles?!?

“Oh, fuck me sideways!” she swore.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I don’t own any aspect of the TV show Teen Wolf – plot, background, characters, names, exc. This is a fan-fic, written for fan purposes. Please, comment and let me know of any character or plot inconsistencies.


End file.
